Trashed (Stripped #2)

by Jasinda Wilder

  “I thought so, too. Only it’s not. It’s the opposite, if anything. Everyone else I work with is skinnier than me. More tan than me. Higher, tighter boobs than me. Better facial structure than me. Better at posing than me. More willing to suck off the photographers than me. And the unspoken but very real pressure to keep my weight down really does a fucking number on my psyche. No one’s outright said in so many words ‘Des, you have to lose five pounds.’ Not yet, at least. What they do is measure me and weigh me and second-guess my food choices and cluck and tut when I have to wiggle myself into jeans so tight I feel like a stuffed motherfucking sausage. I just want some goddamned cheesecake, Ruthie! I’m in New York City and I haven’t had one single piece of cheesecake. It’s ridiculous. You know what I’ve eaten today? Limp, warm caesar salad, a small one at that, and a pre-made turkey and swiss sandwich. You know what I had yesterday? A handful of veggie sticks and half a bagel, no cream cheese.”

  “My god, Des. That’s criminal.”

  “That’s modeling.”

  “Well fuck modeling.”

  “I can’t quit now, Ruth. I’ve barely gotten my feet wet.”

  “You’re miserable.”

  I don’t know what to say. I hate it here, most days. It’s loud, hectic, high-pressure, intense. And that’s just New York. I’m hungry. I’ve been hungry since the day I landed at LaGuardia. I miss Ruth. I miss Detroit, as crazy as it sounds. I miss Mackinac Island.

  I miss Adam.

  Ruth is silent, and I know her so well I can tell she’s got something to say but isn’t sure how to start. “Just say it, Ruth.”

  I can hear her take a long sip of whatever she made in the blender, a piña colada or something delicious I’m sure. “There’s no way to ease into this, so I’ll just say it. Adam showed up at school.”

  “He—what? Adam? At Wayne State?”

  “He was looking for you.”

  My head spins, and if I wasn’t already sitting down, I’d have fallen down. “Holy shit. What did he—what did you tell him?”

  “The truth. That you’re modeling in New York, that I don’t have an address or phone number for you.” She’s quiet again, and I wait for her. “He gave me his contact info to give to you.”

  “He did?”

  “He looked…like he missed you, Des. Like he regretted letting you go.”

  “He didn’t. I let him go.”

  “Why, Des? He seems really cool.”

  “How is that gonna work, Ruth? I follow him wherever he goes? Sit in some mansion in L.A., waiting for him to get back from filming? I barely know him, and he doesn’t know me at all.”

  “It’s called taking risks, Des. You should have given him a shot.” She sighs, and she sounds frustrated, or disappointed, or just resigned. I can’t tell which. “Do you want this info or not?”

  “Yeah.”

  She rattles off Adam’s information, and I write it down. We talk for a few more minutes and then hang up. I stay in the bizarrely comfortable yet hideously uncomfortable beanbag chair, staring at the numbers. I find myself writing his name above the phone number, circling it, underlining it.

  But I don’t call.

  My reasoning is vague, even to me. Is it about not admitting that I was wrong? That I should have…what? That I should have handled things differently? Told him more about myself? Told him why I got the tattoos? What difference would any of that made?

  So I don’t call.

  Not that day, or the rest of that week.

  I spend a few days trying on bathing suits, and it goes as well as could be expected. Sidney frowns, and Rochelle’s plucked and waxed eyebrows lower in consternation. They hand me bikini after bikini, and reject each and every one. Finally, they settle on two. One is a bandeau top and boy short bottoms in basic black, the other a red and orange swirl design in a halter-top and a high-waisted bottom.

  And let me just say, even wearing those standing in front of Sidney and Rochelle was hard for me. I squirmed, fidgeted, adjusted the halter-top, played with the bandeau strap, and tried gamely not to pluck at the wedgie the high-waisted bottom gave me.

  And then Sidney dropped the bomb. “These are good, Des. As good as they’re going to get, at least.” Her hazel eyes fixed on me, and she trailed a hand through her expensively-dyed red hair. “You really need to drop a few pounds, though. If you could manage that, the suits would fit just that much better. You have…what…four more days? Even three or four pounds would make all the difference.”

  My face went red from equal parts of anger and embarrassment. “Sidney, I—”

  She held up a hand, palm face-out to me. “I hate having to say that. I really do. You think anyone wants to hear that? You know how many times I heard that, when I was modeling? ‘Five more pounds, Sidney.’ At least once a week, I heard it. It hurts, I know it does. And I’m sorry. But it’s the business.” She waved a hand at me, dismissing me. “You can do it. I’m sure you can.”

  I leave the office with a small bag containing the bikinis, and a heart full of hurt and anger.

  I swallow it, and spend the next four days barely eating, walking faster, taking stairs. I try on the bikinis every morning, and every night, and see that, yes, as I shed two pounds, and then three, and then four, they do fit slightly better. My cleavage is accentuated when the rest of me is slightly more…streamlined.

  But I’m so hungry.

  And the anger percolates in me, deep down.

  Florida is hot and humid. We spend a good portion of the first day choosing a location, which means hiking up and down the beach, hunting for exactly the perfect location. Each spot looks the same to me: hotels and restaurants and resorts on one side, sand and the sea on the other, as far the eye can see in both directions. But Ludovic seems to be looking for something specific, so we all follow him here and there like stupid little ducks trailing after their mama.

  And then he chooses a stretch of sand exactly like all the others, nods, and announces that this is it. His crew scrambles to set up reflectors and all the other gear. Hair and makeup start dabbing and brushing and twisting, and we’re peeling off our cover-ups. The other girls all do so easily, confidently. They toss their wraps to the sand and adjust straps and bikini lines, and strut around happily, chattering to each other and kicking at the surf, giggling. A crowd is gathering, watching, and I find myself hesitating. But I can’t hesitate. I untie the front of my cover-up and shrug out of it and focus on not seeing the crowd of gawking tourists and sunbathers. I fold the cover-up and set it on the sand, kick off my flip-flops and let hair and makeup finish with me. All eyes are fixed on me.

  Because I stand out.

  The other girls are all rail-thin and lithe with tiny but perfectly shaped tits and bubbly little butts and skin that looks airbrushed even before they grace the magazine pages. I’m the tallest one by at least three inches, and the biggest one by at least thirty pounds.

  I’m the only “plus size” model doing this shoot.

  I see people staring at me, I feel it. Guys amble by and I feel their gazes on me. Ludovic is taking pictures of the ocean or something, endless pictures, adjusting the settings on his massive Nikon. With the reflector, without, then with some kind of gray lens filter, and without.

  Finally, he points at one of the models, a girl from Brazil named Nina. Her bikini is so negligible that it would probably fit in an empty Keurig coffee pod.

  She’s fucking stunning.

  She lays in the gentle surf, rolls around, droplets of water beading just so on her dark skin. Her smile is white and genuine.

  Anya is next, a Russian-American girl with platinum hair and massive—but fake—tits. Her waist curves in, and her ass bubbles out, and her thighs are slim but shapely, and she’s just absurdly perfect looking. Ludovic pays special attention to her. He shoots hundreds of photos of her, handing his camera to an assistant and kneeling beside her, adjusting her hair and saying charming little things to her that have her giggling. Then he has her roll
onto her back so her tits are thrust into the air and her hair is splayed wet and fine on the sand while the waves lap at her knees.

  It’s an incredible shot. Sports Illustrated perfect.

  When they’re done, he stops her and whispers something in her ear, handing her what looks likes a room key card. She smiles coyly at him. The next model takes Anya’s place at the water’s edge, and Anya plops down onto the sun-warmed sand beside me.

  She uses the key card to scrape a line in the sand between her legs. “God, what a pig.”

  I play dumb. “Who? Ludovic?”

  She nods, not looking at me. “Yes, Ludovic. Touching me. Telling me how sexy I am. Of course I’m sexy! I’m a fucking model, yes? Like I’m going to sneak into his room in the middle of the night and let him fuck me. I don’t care if he can get me on Sports Illustrated. Not happening. God, what an asshole.”

  “Do you want to be on Sports Illustrated?” I ask.

  She looks up at me and her expression is one of disbelief. “Of course. You think I go on this diet and spend so many hours in the gym to look this way for to get a date or some shit? No. I am a swimsuit model. The swimsuit edition is what every bikini model wants. But to do what he wants me to do to get it, I don’t think so. I have standards.” She glances at me again, curiously this time. “I’m sorry. Did you do something like this to get here? I don’t mean to insult you, if you did.”

  I can’t help but laugh. In trying not insult me, she insults me. I shake my head. “No. I’m only here because he’s hoping I will.”

  “And will you?”

  I dig my heel into the sand, trying to disguise the anger and disgust. “Fuck no.” I wiggle my toes. “Not if he was the last man on earth.”

  “Then we have at least that in common,” Anya says, and stands up, brushing sand from her ass.

  Another backhanded insult. I try not to let it bother me as I wait for my turn in front of the camera.

  Hours later, as the sun is lowering into the sea, and I’m bored out of my mind all the other models have left, except Li Fei. And then she’s shoving her feet into sandals and leaving without a word to anyone, and it’s just Ludovic, me, and the crew.

  I try to leave space between me and Ludovic as I pass him, but he moves toward me, puts his hand on my arm and turns me.

  “Just there, yes.” He snaps a few shots, checks them, adjusts his settings, and snaps a few more, dropping to one knee.

  With no direction, I just stand there, hands at my sides, weight on one leg, unsmiling. My skin tingles where he touched me, and I want to rub at it, slather hand sanitizer on it. He lets his camera hang from his neck and puts his hands on my waist, guiding me toward the sea. I step out of his reach, and I see a flash of irritation cross his features. He closes the space between us and his hands go to my waist again, and he positions me. His hands linger, and his eyes search me.

  “Don’t play coy, Des,” he says to me in a low voice only I can hear. “You know your options are limited.”

  And with that fury-inciting statement, he backs away and starts snapping, kneeling, bending, standing up, twisting the camera to portrait, changing a setting, shouting pose instructions. The next hour passes slowly, my muscles stiff and sore from changing positions and poses so frequently, holding a particular pose as long as I can every now and then.

  He gestures at me at the end of an hour. “Nice, nice. Now change to the other bikini.”

  There’s no screen, and a small crowd is still watching. “Um. Change where?”

  He has to stifle a leering grin. “Here, here. They can shield you with your cover-up, if you’re so worried.”

  Two girls on the makeup crew take my cover-up and the light reflector, positioning themselves between me and Ludovic and the crowd, so there’s only the ocean to see me as I strip the top off and stuff myself into the halter top. Fortunately, there’s no one out paddle boarding or jet skiing at the moment. I feel Ludovic watching me, and I know he can see my feet and calves, and my shoulders. He unashamedly lifts up on his toes to try to watch, winking at me.

  When I’ve changed into the other bikini, we spend another hour going from pose to pose, until the sun is half-buried in the rippling horizon and we’re losing the light.

  Finally, he waves at the crew. “Good. We’re done. You can go.” He looks at me, and his expression is dark, hungry. “Des and I are going to finish here alone.”

  The crew exchange glances, and one of them fixes me with a questioning gaze. She knows his reputation, and what he’s trying to do. But they can’t do anything about it; assistants and camera crews are even more replaceable than models.

  I pull on my cover-up as the crew packs up and drifts back to the hotel. Ludovic is scrolling through the previous shots, nodding now and then.

  When he realizes everyone is gone, the crowd of curious tourists included, a smile crosses his face. “Alone at last,” he says, his voice low with promise.

  I hold my chin high. “I have to go.”

  He just shakes his head. “No, you don’t.” He gestures at the restaurant not far away. “We should have dinner, I think.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I lie.

  He just grins. “Yes, you are.” He steps toward me and I tense, feeling my skin crawl with his proximity. “You’ve lost weight. It looks good on you. Or off you, more like. Now, if only you would drop, oh, ten more, you’d be truly striking. I could do amazing things with you, Des.” He winks, making it a double entendre.

  I don’t bother to hide my disgust and anger. “I’m leaving.” I turn away before I do something rash, like put my fist down his throat.

  He jogs after me, leans into me, and his finger hooks in the halter strap of my top, tugging at it. “Come on, Des. You think you can get anywhere in this business on your own? You really don’t want to walk away from me.”

  “Yes, I do.” I keep walking, refusing to look at him.

  He keeps pace with me, and his mouth is beside my ear. “You wouldn’t even have to do much, you know. Not unless you wanted to. Put those plump lips of yours around my cock, Des. You’ll like it, I promise. Just that, and I can make you successful. I can get you out of that shoebox apartment you share with all those other girls. I have a big apartment, and a big cock. You can have both.” He drifts a hand across my waist, down to my ass. “You know you want to. You know you won’t ever get anything better than me.”

  Everything boils up and out. Rage is hot, and blinding. I spin away from him, take a step back. “Fuck…you.” I spit out the words, hissing in blind fury.

  And then I do something even more stupid: I take one step toward him, and slap him with my open hand as hard as I can. He blinks at me, a hand to his face, and then starts toward me, anger in his eyes. I shove him away from me. Pussy that he is, he goes flying backward three or four steps, stumbles, and lands on his ass in the sand. His camera thumps against his chest, and he rolls to one side, the Nikon dragging through the sand.

  I stalk away, and ignore Ludovic as he shouts.

  “You’ll regret this, you bitch. I’m calling Sidney right now! You’ll never work again. You’re finished! FINISHED!”

  Trying to make an angry exit across the sand isn’t easy. I want to run, but I don’t. My tits would smack me in the chin, for one thing, since this stupid bikini top provides absolutely dick for support. And for another, I don’t want to give Ludovic the satisfaction of knowing how upset I am.

  Rage and shame and hate pulse through me, tears prick at my eyes, making crying inevitable. Not yet, though. Not here.

  I feel shame because, just for one single split second, I considered it. For an eye blink, I considered doing what he wanted. But then sanity reasserted itself, and disgust shot through me. Along with a crushing load of self-loathing.

  You know you won’t ever get anything better than me.

  Oh, I could have had something much better. But I ruined that, too.

  * * *

  “Damn it, Des. I warned you.” Rochell
e meets me in the check-in line at LaGuardia airport.

  She has my suitcases balanced on a trolley. Not just the one little carry-on I brought to Florida, but the three big ones that contain everything I own.

  “Rochelle?” I stare at my suitcases. “What’s…what’s going on?”

  Her eyes are regretful. “You don’t have to fuck him, I told you. Just don’t piss him off.” She shakes her head. “And you go and assault him? In public, on a beach, in front of dozens of witnesses?”

  “You don’t know what he said to me, Rochelle.”

  “And I don’t care.” She digs in her purse, comes up with a folder. She opens it, hands me two pieces of paper. One is a check for a paltry amount of money. The other is a one-way plane ticket back to Detroit, leaving in thirty-six minutes. “The only reason I’m even paying for your flight back is because I like you. I paid for that ticket. Not Sidney, not the agency. Me. This isn’t the business for you, Des. It’s just not. Go home. Go back to school.”

  I stare at the ticket. And I find, along with hurt and sadness and embarrassment, a palpable sense of relief. “Thanks, Rochelle.”

  She offers me a rare smile, and it looks strange on her features. “No, thank you. You know how long I’ve wanted to slap that smug, arrogant pig?”

  So I drag my three heavy suitcases through the line as fast as I can, tripping, fighting back confused tears. I barely make the flight, stumbling to the jetway just as they’re about to close the door. They let me on, and I find my seat, holding my purse on my lap and staring at the check that represents nearly two months of starvation and stress and insane hours.

  Back at Detroit Metro Airport, I realize I’m not sure how I’m going to get home, and wonder if Ruth has found a new roommate. I don’t have a credit card or a debit card, and I’m not even twenty-three yet, so I can’t rent a car. I don’t have a phone or anyone to call. Ruthie doesn’t have a car.

  I have to call an airport taxi, and the ride costs me the rest of my cash. It’s raining when I lug my baggage out of the cab and onto the sidewalk outside Ruthie’s apartment building. My key doesn’t work in the lock, which I realize is brand new. I press the buzzer, but she doesn’t answer.